Ode to albatrosses

At approximately five o clock this evening (four pm GMT), I broke the nail on the thumb of my left hand. To my general irritation and displeasure, it conspired that the nail had not broken off entirely; it had merely broken half way and given up. This gave me the ever fickle gift of hope. Those who know me will probably not think about my nails at all. They're there on the end of my fingers, so what? Well, I don't take great care of my nails in the French manicure and endless stress over the state of my cuticles sense of the word, but I do keep them a pleasant length (approximately five millimeters, but who's counting?) and take some pride in the fact that for minimum care I have pretty good, even, and reasonably clean nails. Thus, the breakage of said nail was pretty catastrophic.

Now, normally I'm a "cut off and cease the problem" kind of girl. But lately I've been taking a little more care over my appearance. I've spent a fair amount of cash and time to get this look (hours spent sunbathing, trips to hairdressers with the pram and praying to god that the kid doesn't wake up while I'm in there, bin bags full of cash on a new wardrobe, jewellery, and the most gorgeous pile of shoes I will ever come across) and I don't intend to fuck up my "actually gives a shit" look simply because of a hang nail. That’s right kids, I've become my sister.

So we started the operation for recovery. First to be tested was the nail bandage. A sweet and easy combination of a piece of weird white stuff that normally can be found under the hems in practically every piece of clothing, and nail glue. I was dubious. The bandage was cut to size, shape, and placed over the nail, but the glue was dried out and so the nail bandage solution was abandoned.

Secondly we went for professional nail acrylics. You take the acrylic on a paint brush then dip it into this tub of white powder until it forms a pearl, then apply to the nail. You paint it on until it forms a pearly film over the nail, and leave to dry. Once dried it must be filed and buffered to the right shine and distribution. Needless to say, it took me three attempts and most of it ended up on the table.

Finally, after filing and buffing the bloody thing until it looked like my nail had weird cross hatchings across it and was about as smooth as sandpaper, I gave up and painted all of my nails in pale pink varnish to hide the damage. Voila, one slightly lumpy thumb nail, but the nail was attached to my finger, and the acrylic was as solid as promised.

Or, at least, that’s what I thought. That’s what I thought right until I turned the computer on using my thumb and half the acrylic and nail varnish cracked right off, leaving a lumpy mess and a still very much broken nail. The moral of the story: cut your losses while you’re behind because nail kits are utter shite and no matter how much you care about something, unless you’re a professional it will all go wrong anyway.

Today on msn’s news was the following:
 Lebanese flee during battle pause
 WP: U.S. risks backlash in Mideast
 Olmert says no cease-fire
 U.N. warns Iran over nukes
 Oil spill on Russian export pipeline

Sort of makes me feel bad that I spent the entire evening worrying about a hang nail.

Labels: Theatrics

I never used to remember my dreams. Generally I told people that I simply didn't dream. Of course, I am pretty close to certain that that is physically impossible, but I never had anything to look back on when I woke up every morning. There wasn't even the remnants of a vaguely remembered piece of imagery, or the echo of something that somehow my waking brain just couldn't seem to grasp.

Recently, in the past three months or so, I have started to dream. More recently, my dreams have been so vivid that I've woken up and been convinced that the things that happened in my dreams actually occurred. Some of them are completely outrageous and I've known that of course they didn't really happen. For example, when I woke up after my dream that I was both Pierce Brosnan, and a boy I fell in love with in first school's mistresses (at the same time, it got quite complex for a while and was highly amusing), I was pretty sure that it hadn't happened. It sort of felt like it had, but only in the same way that you remember something as if it's your memory but is actually something you saw in a film or on TV. It can be a bit blurry and though you can visualise it, it sort of feels like you experienced it while wearing rubber gloves.

But some other dreams have been so vivid, so... I don't even know what the word is... real, that I've woken up and actually thought it had happened. I dreamt that I slept with one of my best friends (female) last week and my ex boyfriend walked in (eurgh, Freud would have fun with my dreams). It took me until lunch time to realise that it wasn't a real memory- it hadn't happened! It wasn't until I was putting the kids to sleep later that evening that the guilt of being a lesbian and being found out by him started to ease off. I'm not a lesbian, and have never until that dream had any sort of tendencies in that direction, but it was weird. It was also extremely disturbing. Don't get me wrong, she's a lovely girl and I do love her, but I just like men that little bit too much and women... well, erm... not so much.

And every single one of the dreams I remember has been completely fucked up. Last night I dreamt I joined the navy and had to shave all my hair off and I cried. The uniforms were awful too, and they made me eat porridge. I like porridge generally, as long as its made in a specific way and is served with molasses, but this stuff was the icky gruel from Oliver, not the way my grandma used to make it when I was a sprog. This fat girl that Stacey and I have hated since food lessons in year eleven was there, and so was the ex boyfriend (from above, featured in the lesbian nightmare too). It was all extremely wrong and I didn't enjoy it at all. Judging by the twenty minutes it took me to just work out how to untangle my duvet this morning (I'm not kidding, I'm not the best at making beds in general, but this morning I was really having problems) I really had a rough night. I must have been thrashing about in my sleep to get pillows down by my ankles and half of the sheet pushed right under the bed.

I don't know what it is. How could I go from no dreams to a horrifying number that I don't just vaguely remember, but still remember vividly (and somewhat disturbedly) weeks later? I don't have a clue how to stop them, where they're coming from, or how I even know how to be a lesbian. But I don't like it.

Labels: Introspection, Theatrics

My room is in the basement of the house. Its just like the other floors, it isn’t a dank drippy room filled with dusty wine bottles and rats as in Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mister Fox. For some reason ever since I read that book I’ve had the Cider cellar in the back of my mind whenever I envision cellars. They all include a scary farmer’s wife with a rolling pin standing at the top of an uneven stone staircase up to the floor above too. The fox hiding behind the shelves is optional.

The cellar consists of two cupboards, one of which I believe actually is a broom cupboard; a washroom with an old closed up well in it; and my bedroom. Due to the old well it can get a little damp in the hallway, but that doesn’t affect my room luckily and my room serves as the only room in the entire house that reaches a temperature just below twenty five degrees during the night. Therefore, it is the only room in the entire house where it is possible to get a decent night’s sleep. This, of course, I am extremely grateful for.

I’ve got a sofa bed, a TV with DVD player and MTV (in English with German subtitles), and a functional computer. There is also a door and some steps out into the garden which is a useful fire exit/ way in which to escape during the night if I ever actually meet anyone here worth sneaking out to see. Not that I would really have to do any sneaking, but you know, I’m still a teenager and searching out escape routes as soon as I enter a new house is still sort of ingrained.

I think my room may also be the only room in the house that actually has a carpet. All the rest are tiles. Not that that actually has any relation to anything, but it is something I have just this second noticed.

The house is lovely with a really big mural thing up the stairs, and a slightly eclectic mixture of interior design with English, Turkish and German bases. I especially approve of the large fuzzy bean bag in the lounge. I did consider buying one and taking it home (along with a hanging chair which incidentally, I have in my room hanging from the ceiling here) but decided against it because it probably wouldn’t fit in my suitcase along with the huge amount of clothing and shoes I have acquired in the past three weeks. Having money is bad for my outgoings.

Since coming here my gorgeous Sony Ericsson walkman phone has literally fallen apart (the top has unscrewed and separated itself from the bottom- crappy thing, grrrr) and I have been forced to use a waterproof but otherwise boring Nokia 5210 that is never quite sure if it’s sent a message, has a memory of exactly eighteen texts, and switches itself off twenty seconds into every phone call without fail, regardless of how much battery or reception it has. I’ve been through three sim cards, and am now on German Vodafone contract that has no texts or minutes, and I don’t understand the tariffs at all. I also can’t receive or send picture messages due to this stupid phone that advertises being in colour, as long as that colour is yellow. The annoying thing about it being that it isn’t even yellow; it’s more an orangey green colour that makes me nauseous.

The keyboards are also a little confusing as the z and y are swapped over (making yellow nearly impossible to touch type and causing me to go back every few seconds to change zellow into yellow). And the (at) sign is hiding. As are the square brackets now I come to need them. If anyone with an inkling about keyboards is reading this, if you have three different letters/ symbols on one key, how on earth do you access the third one?? For the first you just press it, for the second you press shift, but for the third? I’m completely bamboozled. Why can’t they just have simple QWERTY keyboards, and none of this ö, ä, and ß nonsense? What are these things? QWERTZ keyboards? That just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

My alarm clock wakes me up at half five every morning with Counting Crows “Colorblind” and does so every nine minutes after that until sometime around six thirty ish when I stop pressing “sleep” and contemplate getting up. Not that I actually get up until seven, I just decide I’m getting up, turn my alarm off, and wake up half an hour later guilty and very late. I get dressed in two minutes flat, usually in a mini skirt and whatever top is on the top of my pile, then run upstairs doing my hair, teeth, and face on the way to wake up the kids.

From there it’s a never ending cycle of one kid going to kindergarten while the youngest potters around. Then at approximately eleven thirty I put him down for a nap, spend twenty minutes convincing him he does want to sleep rather than run around some more, run out the house and pick up the eldest at twelve. He comes home, eats, runs around for a bit, then goes down for his nap around half one. The youngest wakes up at this point when he hears things go quiet, and has another nap at three when the eldest wakes up and goes out to play. Both are awake when the youngest wakes at half four, and will either go for a walk or play in the garden (at temperatures of between thirty and thirty six degrees Celsius generally) until six when they throw food around for an hour, then go to bed.

And the stupid thing about it all is that they’re actually easier to cope with when they’re awake at the same time because they play together instead of constantly looking to me for amusement. But this doesn’t occur until half four, by which time I’m ready to murder whichever one cries first.

When I finally eat at half seven all I want to do is sleep. Or collapse in front of the joy’s of BBC Prime (2.4 children and endless repeats of Top Gear).

All in all, it’s a wonderful life.

Labels: Stage Settings

He said: Yeah, I get leave in two and a half weeks. When will you be back?

She said: I don't know- I haven't booked yet. Sometime around the 26th.

He said: Well we should go out sometime when you get back. I need to catch up on some serious drinking.

She said: lol me too. This trip has put a serious dent in my plans to become an alcoholic good for nothing.

He said: I know, I haven't been drunk in nearly seven weeks! If I get drunk I can be kicked out! Think I'll enjoy getting drunk with you again, it usually ended quite well : )

To which, in the end, there was simply no way for me to reply. I'm a drama queen and an outspoken idiot, but I'm not good at showing my actual feelings. I guess I'm the female equivalent of those macho fools who keep their emotions locked in a box never letting anything show. And anyway, I'm not sure how to slap someone across the face by text.

Assuming that "ended quite well," means sex rather than falling over drunk a lot and laughing at each other, I have to wonder when "going out" was equated with sex. I'm also quite curious as to whether I even agreed that I would go out sometime with him. I don't think there's a "yes" in there anywhere. Though I can't really object that much to that one considering there was definite room for improvement in the clarity of my refusal. Personally I think I just avoided answering the question directly in order to leave my options open, and avoid conflict.

But the assumption that I will sleep with him is barely veiled, if at all. And that makes me wonder. What exactly does he want? Actually, that's a stupid question. I know exactly what he wants. But what? I'm just expected to sleep with him? Like there's just no chance of me rejecting him. I can reject him! I did it once (though only once and it ended up making me much more miserable than him) and I can do it again. Definitely.

I don't know why on earth this bothers me. The casual assumption that I will sleep with him whenever he wishes is irritating, but not entirely new. In fact, it's pretty much the story of the last six months. Or so. It's slightly more irritating now because we aren't together, and until now he hasn't actually said anything so completely impossible to ignore. "Going out sometime," is so easy to take the wrong way. You can debate whether it means "date" or "friendly gathering," for hours. But I know how everything ended with us; that isn't so easy to debate.

Basically he's a twat. I'm easier than I should be, but I'm not going to sleep with someone purely on their whims. I'll admit, I'd love to on a purely... animalistic(?) level. But letting him walk all over me isn't fair trade for an orgasm.

Labels: Being the Duck, Falling, Pleasure

I did the `I’m going for men the same age as me´ thing, and I think now its time to give up on that. It just isn’t a match that is ever going to work for either of us. I go out with them, get bored, and move on. And yes, admittedly I have had some problem with dating guys significantly older too. No names needed but he was so irritating that even the fact he had a Jag and was smitten enough to offer me diving lessons couldn’t keep me interested. But I am going to swallow every post-date thing I said about older men being awful, and write him off as an anomaly that can be avoided in future.

Translated: from now on I’m only shagging older men. I realise that age has absolutely no relation to maturity; that isn’t why I’m making this decision. I just feel that older men are more attractive, and they sort of make me feel virginal compared which is pleasant. I feel like the little girl dressed up in her mother’s high heels with prostitute-red lipstick plastered across my lips. I don’t know why that imagery is attractive to me, but the idea is seductive in more ways than one.

I’ve been doing some research unintentionally by hanging around places I am likely to meet fathers rather than people my own age. At the start it drove me crazy; I guess it still does to a certain extent. But then I realised that okay, the idea of falling for a daddy is ridiculous, as long as he’s still married. But the older you get, the more sensual you get, and the better I get treated. And you never need to check to see if they’ve remembered to bring their ID.

Evidently I’m going senile being forced to go to mother and toddler groups, kindergarten, and food shopping. Food shopping is more than enough to push anyone over the edge- have you seen the crazed people in there fighting over the lettuce and making innuendos to each other about baked beans? And living in the middle of nowhere with no means of transport is putting a serious dint in my social life (boyfriends) that I would normally expect to be having right now.

So I admit it. I’m definitely going crazy. But just look at Pierce Brosnan, Johnny Depp, Sean Connery (possibly a bit too old now)- they’re attractive, mature, and they make me feel a little less crazy than I felt ten minutes ago.

Labels: Courting

Think tall. Not so tall that I have to wear heels permanently, but tall enough that I can’t complain. Dark hair, three quarter length combats, and a sleeveless black top. For some reason he reminds me a little of Robert Redford. Except younger, and so much more attractive. Even though Robert Redford is pretty hot for his age.

He’s older than strictly I’m allowed. Thirty five-ish maybe, so approximately double my age. He’s with two kids, a girl and a boy, both beneath the age of ten. He’s a daddy. They’re feeding the deer and he needs some change for the food dispenser thingumy so his kids can feed them more. At first glance as it’s explained we’ve run out of change ourselves, I think he’s good for his age. But I’m not paying attention; I was there to watch the kids not the adults. But then I do watch him a little. He notices and I pull the sunglasses over my eyes and watch him some more. I’m too young for this, and suddenly remember how young I must seem to him. I’m “oooohing and aaahhing” over the furriness of the deer’s antlers (who knew antlers were furry?) and I’m standing there in pigtails after deciding to do my hair ironically that morning. Of course, I’m the only one who knows that it’s ironic, and all he’s gonna see is a big kid in hoop earrings and over sized sunglasses.

Nothing happened. He obviously has a wife somewhere, though he was on his own with his kids, and if I were to play Sherlock to the situation I would make a guess as to them being broken up and him having the kids for the weekend. But that’s still a very bad excuse for flirting with him far too obviously for the next half hour or so. And it was entirely unreciprocated; if it had been I wouldn’t have been flirting, merely watching with interest. But it was still wrong. I mean, the guy had kids.

So this is one of those situations that means nothing. I won't ever see him again, and even if I do there is a very slim chance that we would recognise each other. But it was nice. It was nice to feel that even with my hair ironically making me look twelve, and two bawling kids at both of our ankles, there was still a brief connection. He was probably the most attractive person I've ever met, and it was strange because his face wasn't conventionally attractive (though oh my god his body was) and he was so far off limits that I felt bad smiling back at him. But I couldn't help it.

I hate those moments. The ones as you're walking through a crowd and you meet someone's eyes, or a brief conversation when there is too much at stake for it to ever be something more. But I love them too because even though it was nothing, he was still the most perfect nothing I've ever encountered, and he made me remember that people as attractive as him do exist after all, they aren't just myths, and occasionally they'll give you a short period of time in which the world is perfect, and you feel attractive and wonderful. Even though, in the end, you know it will never happen.

Labels: Coquetry, Courting

What was the quote? Ah yes, "Nature abhors a vacuum," by the Colonel on one of the many letters that I posted on here rather than actually posting. Therapy via unsent letter writing. If you're reading me, and think that you would prefer something less serious, more funny, and significantly less self obsessed then I would reccomend the Colonel to you. In fact, the mood that I'm in, it's probably better to read anything else other than me. But, if you're hardcore and as obsessive about my life as I am, then sit back, relax, and get ready to hear me whine.

Right. A few nights ago I put the monster to bed. I was just leaving the room and he called out, "night night, love you," sleepily then closed his eyes. A kid on the verge of dozing off. I quietly said, "Night, love you too," like my grandmother used to before she left me to sleep when I was really little. I shut the door. Took one step, and sank down with my back to the wall and cried. Quietly so I wouldn't wake either of them up, but silent tears are the same as every other type of tear, except more frustrating because you know you must stay silent, share your pain with no one.

I can't say "love you." I can feel it the same as everyone else, but I can't act it or let it show. And until that moment when I closed the door on that sweet little kid who has been driving me utterly crazy for the past two weeks, I didn't realise how much I needed to be told that. When everyone thought that I was pregnant they said stuff like, "it'll be good for you," and how a baby would bring me out of myself, etc. And kids do that. They make me cry, and they make me realise that though they aren't my kids, I still really do love them. I live with them, I feed them, I bath them, I change their icky nappies, and when they tell me they love me I say the same right back.

And I'm turning my phone off. I can't think of any other way to do it. Just for a few days. I thought that a platonic relationship in which we talked occasionally would be fine. When He initially started texting me I was irritated, and confused. Then we talked about a lot of stuff, I wasted a lot of money, and I started to remember what it was that had drawn me to him in the first place. The attraction wasn't the first thing with us. When we met I was so drunk and basically sick to the teeth of men who were after me that I really didn't give a shit about the attractiveness of any fucking male in the place. Yet somehow I still managed to leave with him. You work that one out. I told him to go away, I left him twice to go and talk to my friend who was... otherwise engaged. I didn't want a guy, I'd already vowed that I was celibate and off men for good earlier that night.

Okay, I'll admit, our relationship ended up being a lot about sex. Can you fault me? I'm at the age where while I'm not still completely an adolescent ball of hormones, I'm still youthful, etc. But that first night I wasn't drawn to him because of any chemistry between us, the next morning I had absolutely no idea what he looked like, I couldn't even remember if he'd been attractive. I was drawn to him because of the way we talked to each other, the way he treated me, and the way he was persistent while still not acting like it mattered if he got me or not.

Yes, I know. Nature abhors me right now. But I don't like myself either. I've let him talk his way back in when we both know that he isn't in it for anything other than sex. And that's fine. With anyone else male then that accomodation suits me nicely. But not him. With him I guess it's either all or nothing. And I realised that when the kid told me he loved me. I want someone to tell me they love me. But better, I want the man I love to tell me he loves me. But we both know that he can't do that. And while with anyone else I'll do the one night stand, or the meaningless affair that lasts a fortnight or so, with him I can't.

So instead of continuing to promise something that I've just realised I had no intention of ever doing, even when I thought I actually would, I'm turning my phone off. No one else is interested in phoning me since I left the country anyway, it won't make any difference. Because thats what he expects. He expects sex because it's me, and he knows that I'll do meaningless. And I expected that too. It doesn't hurt anyone, we both know how to make each other happy, and we can both wake up the next morning and get on with everything else without really thinking of it as anything more than fun. But I now know that it would hurt me. I've just realised how much it's already hurt me. So I'm stopping.

Labels: Being the Duck, Falling, Introspection, Theatrics

I dreamt of love like it was this wonderful ideal- the way things would be if life were perfect and I were more appealing. I dreamt of travel, leaving home, because home has never been where my heart is, it's always been claustrophobic, and the scene of far too many emotional crimes. I dreamt of marriage as this perfect thing that I, as a cynical, unromantic, unlovable, useless child, could never achieve. This myth, fairytale, that only the strongest can make work. I know happily married couples, and I adore them, I knew that they were doing something I could never even hope for myself, and I was awed.

But love isn't like that. Love is awkward, stupid, and blind. Love is where you act like a retard, and let your heart guide your head. Love isn't perfect, it isn't wonderful, and being in it only causes more pain when it ends. Love will work, if not for me, then at least for someone. But it can't always work, and the fact that you are in it has absolutely no relation at all to your happiness or well being.

Leaving home. Well, that worked. I'm calmer, less stressed, and a thousand times more tired. Its a different type of tired too. At home I was mentally exhausted, here it's completely physical. But my dream wasn't so accurate either. What dreams are? Yes, I feel wonderful and have had a chance to improve myself in a few ways. For example, now I can cook, get by in German, and can change a nappy without dying. But I'm lonely. This place is heaven for couples with children, but the kind of place that as soon as the children are old enough, they leave for places more exciting. If I could drive, and had the time, then I could go out a few places myself, maybe go clubbing, or whatever the equivalent is over here, on my own and make some friends. But I have to rely on lifts everywhere, and have no knowledge of local taxi services/ buses. I'm naturally more sociable than this and it's starting to grate.

Marriage. You don't have to tell me. I know that it isn't anything like how poets, novelists, or optimistic film writers convey. But I've always known that. To me it will be as love: perfect and beautiful in the same unattainable way as tall latino men and real italian ice creams. The men are gorgeous, have accents that basically make you orgasm on "buonasera". But behind practically every attractive guy is the mentality of a little boy, and the longevity of a three legged dachshund. And the ice cream will taste wonderful, it'll look gorgeous, and it'll make you feel like you're in paradise. But you'll never be able to finish it because its just far too rich and sweet. But marriage is unattainable. For me, marriage is the beautiful man on the seat opposite you on the train that you can look at but never touch. You can fantasise and try to work up the courage to say "hi," but in the end you know theres just no point because it will never be yours.

But it isn't that. The perfect couples have all the imperfections you think are only true of you. They made me realise that my dreams are false, true only in the brief time I am asleep. All the other times, they're hazy memories that have absolutely no basis in truth, and are unrelated to reality.

Labels: Flying, Introspection

Guten tag.

It has been a whole two weeks since I last logged in. I came back to 1269 emails and a reasonable number of comments. All I can say is that my "spam filter" has a lot to answer for. Quite obviously, the reason I have been away was because I was having two weeks of non-stop passionate sex with a tall gorgeous German with really big feet who wouldn't let me get out of bed, or even off the kitchen table, long enough to come online. It had absolutely nothing to do with me being run off my feet by two hyperactive toddlers from seven in the morning till eight at night, and then being too knackered to do anything other than collapse into an inanimate mush until seven am the next morning.

I adore it here. I actually have money for the first time since... erm... I discovered alcohol? And to celebrate I bought myself the most gorgeous dress in the whole wide world. It's a black and white polka dot halter neck summer dress and though it is slightly revealing, it still manages to be demure. Of course, if I continue I will never be able to buy myself a laptop as intended. And I'm not entirely certain how I'm going to fit my smoothie-maker machine thingy into my suitcase... But, hey, I'm a big girl now, I have to buy kitchen appliances or I'll not be able to make valuable stuff like mango smoothies and tomato soup. It was totally not an impulse buy. It was actually pretty cost effective considering how much I must have spent buying a smoothie every morning for the last year. The Bridget Bardot sunglasses were, of course, completely essential.

The houses here have tiles on them. The sun comes down stronger, and everything looks like its straight from a Hans Christian Anderson story. It's all houses with hats on, and antlers about the front door. Germany is a country of confused identity. The architecture is so random its insane. It all looks so very german, but it's varied, and, well... completely obscure. It's all so very cynical. Religion, architecture, their whole national philosophy. They're a nation of perfectionists. It's weird because I'd heard the stereotypes, and somehow it lives up to them all, and then manages to surprise me.

The kids, of course, are driving me insane. I don't get enough sleep, and changing nappies... I'm eighteen, this stuff just doesn't agree with me. Today I was dribbled on, puked on, had food thrown at me, and carried a kid while he was sitting on his bicycle all the way home because he kicked up such a fuss i couldn't be arsed with him. I then came online for the first time in fuck knows how long to have david and scott making unnecessary comments regarding me, dildos, my ex boyfriend's cock, and various people that I'd managed to completely forget existed. It reminds me why I never logged into msn when I was using the internet on a regular basis. Meh. It cheered me up slightly.

I have a conundrum at the minute regarding when I come home. I have a choice of two weeks in which to return. I'm totally undecided and don't want to go into it yet on here. For the first time in my life I'm going to exercise discretion. Also, there is the probability that if I do go into it here I will be yelled at. It makes more sense to come home later. If I come over on the third of september then I won't be travelling alone, I'll have an extra weeks pay, I won't have the chance to do anything stupid that I would regret for a very long time and would think of myself as pathetic for doing. But if I come home a week earlier then I get to act stupid, I see my friends for an extra week which is good considering how early some of them are going to uni, and i get to go down to london for a few days and visit my brother. I need to make a decision pretty quickly too otherwise I won't have a choice and will just have to take whatever ticket i can get.

But I don't want to go through this all here. I'm in another country, I've got a completely different lifestyle, and my skin is a completely different colour. Realising that changing all of that changes so little inside me isn't just depressing, it's pathetic. But I don't adapt like that. My sleeping pattern has taken a kicking- I'm a morning person now (god help us). I've turned from strict vegetarian to, well... someone who can't really call herself that anymore. I mean, it was only a croissant which I totally didn't realise had ham in it. Even though I don't speak german, if something is labelled "cheese croissant" I don't expect ham inside. And then there was the tortellini with bacon in because it was cooked and I was too tired to actually make myself something meat free, plus I'd already had the croissant so who cared? And then it was the sausages cos I was hungry and they smelt goood. And so on until eventually it all just slides away from me and I'm left with the certainty that my dad is going to be really disappointed in me, and my aunt will be disgusted (read "aunt" as "bossy surrogate mother").

Anyway, I'm exhausted and I can't afford to sleep in tomorrow. I can't afford to sleep in at all, but sometimes its unavoidable and I end up going out make-up-less and without suncream which results in me wearing my sunglasses too much and turning red everywhere except for two huge circles around my eyes. Well, slight exaggeration. I mean, I haven't actually turned any colour except from a rather acceptable mocha yet, but I really do have sunglasses marks and if I continue then even if I don't turn into a lobster, I will still die at the measly age of twenty three due to skin cancer. So anyway, will write something lovely and poetic or something tomorrow night. Or some other night when i'm awake enough.

Labels: Stage Settings

I’ve turned frigid. At least, for the time being. I realised this last night, sitting in a random’s lap, and with his tongue half way down my throat. It was alright, it was actually nice, but only in the same way that cookies and sunny days are nice. There was no accompanying feeling of, well anything. Now, I’m not a slag, I promise, but usually I at least care that someone has their hands wandering all over me. To be honest, I might as well have been sitting having a cup of tea with him for how much I was turned on.

I’m really quite confused. I actually had a guy avoiding me because he though I’d mess him around. Again. Since when have I turned into an icy bitch with no libido? I spoke to Dave about it and he just didn’t understand it at all. I’m not easy, but I’ve really never been frigid.

I’m perplexed. I’ve spent the week promising people things slutty, slagish, and generally all things nasty, and then, as soon as I get into an atmosphere where I can be those things, I just really don’t care. I was reasonably provocative I guess, I don’t think I know how to dance like a “nice girl,” never mind keep my mouth shut when there is the possibility of an innuendo. But I just really could not be bothered with any of it. The only reason anything happened at all was because I was bored and had already tried to fall asleep on a sofa in the back bar. It didn’t work, so I had to find something else to occupy myself. In the end I gave up on the useless Casanova and went to talk to someone about the size of my ex’s cock (not my choice in conversation, but I felt like I should set him straight when Dinky was telling some random person about how small he’d been).

I’m tired. I’m tired, frustrated, and annoyed at myself. I don’t understand me, and I don’t understand this sudden turn towards sainthood. Not that I’ll ever be even close to a saint, but it looks like I’m turning celibate. I’m miserable anyway because I’m packing my life up into a suitcase. Packing is a giant contradiction in my opinion. On the one hand it represents unlimited possibilities and embracing the new, and on the other it means an end to one way of life, the death of something. I hate packing because I hate trying to work out which side I veer towards. Do I embrace the new, or mourn the death of the old? Can I do both while still retaining a reasonable number of brain cells?

I give up. I’ve got things to pack still, passports to check on, and shoes to deliberate over taking. I need to remember to take my toothbrush, and stop thinking everything through because when I do I just end up annoyed at myself. I don’t like the fact that last night I spent the whole time basically unfeeling and ice-queenish, but it’s past and hopefully tomorrow, or sometime soon, this complete disinterest will pass. Unless I’ve really been ruined for good this time.

Don’t wanna think about it anymore. Whenever I next post, possibly not for a while, I’ll be on the other side of the ocean, and a lot less hungover. Until then, auf wiedersehen.

Labels: Alcoholism, Coquetry, Mistakes, Pleasure